


Confidentiality

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Atheist Castiel, Atheist Character, Bisexual Dean, Churches & Cathedrals, College bound Dean, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Making Out, On the Road that is, Pastor John, Pining Dean, Public Scene, Punk Castiel, References to Canon, Religion, Religious Conflict, Smoking, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, With Some Nice Smut Thrown In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6761746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His name is Castiel Novak and Dean’s chances of going to hell for his excessive pining are highly likely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confidentiality

 

For a preacher’s son, Dean’s not a very religious person.

Notwithstanding his partiality towards Joan Osbourne’s “One of Us”, but even that’s more of a partiality towards Ozzy, whom Dean thought to be her father.

That’s about as far as his knowledge of God goes. And even if he missed something, he can always pick up the _Weekly Christ_ at his local grocers. Those New Addition Bibles pop out faster than the Baby Jesus himself.

His father’s not a devout man, either. Well, he _claims_ to be, being a pastor and all, but Dean treats the Church like a reality TV court room: everyone’s guilty until proven innocent. John, for many an example, gets on stage and reads one of his favorite passages about love and acceptance when he can’t _love_ and _accept_ that Dean’s got his heart set on music therapy, because somewhere in his infinite staircase of bookmarks, it says hard rock and other variations is used in Satanic worships.

(Damn those Satanists—always sucking the marrow out of the classics.)

There is one good thing about being a supposed Christian, however, and that’s meeting new people. Despite the turnover rate being very low, the Church is always open to tenderfoots—one of which being a guy who looks like he belongs on the album cover of _Rock n’ Roll High School_ rather than _Some Days Are Diamonds._ He’s got a body like a straight edge razor: features compact, but sharp, particularly his lightly crayoned jawline and tanned biceps where his two-layer leather modesty cuts off. Dean’s only ever caught a glimpse of his eyes through various luncheons: a shining, silvery blue huge enough to rival the wingspan of a butterfly.

His name is Castiel Novak and Dean’s chances of going to hell for his excessive pining are highly likely.

Such an occasion is what brings them together again. This time, it’s Cas who approaches Dean. This effectively puts an end to Dean’s restless idling not all induced by the sugar cookies Donna whipped up.

“Why are you eating alone?” Cas asks. His voice is the kind of grating too harsh for the finest of cheeses.

Knowing the answer but leaving well enough alone, Dean shrugs against the outside wall. “Because I want to.”

Cas squints, eyes like knives, slicing through the shit quick: “Are they always this way?”

Dean shrugs again. “They’re nice, and their food is really good; don’t get me wrong, they’re just…”

“Okay, Pastor Boy,” Cas says, raising a white nail-polished hand before standing beside him, “I get it, they’re horrible.” Dean laughs under his breath, causing the corners of Cas’s chapped lips to turn up. He pulls a cookie from his pocket and holds it out to Dean’s. “The food _is_ pretty bomb, though. Thank _God_ for that. Cheers.”

Dean’s cookie clanks with Cas’s with an unsatisfying crumble, and Dean’s eyes definitely do _not_ stray south in doing so. He’s just admiring the sidewalk: the last perfect handiwork of construction workers everywhere. Never know when the ground might break in half and swallow you whole. (Praying.) “So, what brings you to moral rehabilitation?” he nearly caws.

Cas laughs, finishing the last of his sugary treat before drawing a cigarette from the opposite pocket. “ _Moral rehabilitation,”_ he echoes, offering one of his many cleverly disguised cancer sticks to Dean, but, in an instant, Dean’s whipping out his own pack from the purple flannel hiding behind his black tuxedo, “I like that. But, no, I’m not here for some divine intervention or whatever—no offense. My family’s the believers.”

“And you don’t?”

Cas takes a hit and taps the spine of his own cigarette before shaking his head. “The way I see it, God's basically a Beat writer like Kerouac or Ginsburg with a dash of misplaced self-loathing."

"Gee, aren't you a glass half full."

"At least a glass has a filter."

Dean’s mildly impressed by that line, but downplays it with a heavy inhalation of the mildly fresh Kansas air surrounding him. "Look man, I'm not driving around with a tie-dye God peace sign 'O' bumper sticker."

Cas flicks his head. "But?"

"No but," Dean reassures easily, rolling a thin sheet of paper around a pile of wispy hay before giving it a Post Office-worthy seal of approval. He watches the west of his cigarette go down in flames with little interest. It’s not as hot as some things standing a foo—okay, a few _inches_ away. Then, laughing softly, he turns his head up and rejoins, a little braver: "Unless it belongs to a hot someone."

"Oh, alright, so that's what this is about," Cas replies, grinning with enough gum to pose for a dental poster, " _You're_ Ginsburg."

"Nah, I'm Cassady,” he says, pausing to take his first hit. The smoke piles out like a train, clean and easy. “You're Ginsburg."

Cas's cigarette comes out in a staccato of smoke. "Yeah, sure," he laughs, deep and long-winded like Ginsburg's "Howl", "I can barely type my own name."

"Ginsburg didn't need a typewriter to be a great poet."

Cas's eyebrows touch his forehead, which is scarcely separated from the spooked black cat clawing into his scalp. Then he points a finger. "There's more to you than meets the eye, Dean Winchester."

"You should see what's underneath." It all but slides off Dean's tongue like pollen on his Impala's windshield, causing him to cringe at more than just the nicotine. "Sorry, I—"

"It's okay," says Cas with a much shyer smile. "I've, uh, actually been thinking about asking you out."

Dean tilts his head a little. "But?"

"No but," Cas reassures before placing his cigarette between those tight pink lips once more and taking a long drag. There’s a wink Dean misses trying to catch his breath. "Unless it's yours."

"Hey now, buy me dinner first."

"Of course. What kind of Christian would I be if I didn't properly court thy sexy male neighbor _before_ digging into his Last Supper?"

" _Oh my God."_

"While we're breaking Commandments," says Cas, giving Dean an ultimatum when he pushes him against the flat of the church wall: space for God or Cas's knee.

Dean gives Cas an answer when he doesn't budge. After tossing his half-eaten cigarette to the ground like a jilted lover and stomping her ashes, Cas surges forward in a fluid motion and captures Dean’s lips. At first, they spar with the other’s teeth and tongue but once they map out the other’s mouths, they find their own rhythm. Dean feels like his father for the first time in his life, drinking in every sin, every Hail Mary from here to eternity.

One hand coiled around Cas's neck and the other itching for his hipbone, Dean tosses his joy stick too. Cas is all he needs to get off. He tastes like addiction: fresh cigarettes, hairspray, and freedom. His body, slim, but hard like gas station jerky, feels even better pressed against Dean’s runner’s body, which gets its name from Cas, whose hands run laps around the small of his back and up the hill of his ass.

They only break away when they’re breathing on each other rather than actually kissing, but even then, Dean feels Cas’s absence heavy on him. Luckily, even though he’s distanced himself by about a foot, Cas has a hand bracing Dean’s chest, kneading like a cat with every thin breath he takes. Dean tries not to lean into it.

“Oh man,” he gasps, facing Dean with wide, lust-blown eyes.

Dean meets his gaze with just as much favor. “What?”

“I’m _definitely_ going to have to repent now.”

Dean laughs short-windedly, “Wait until _after_ our first official date.”

Cas pushes the apples in his cheekbones with a wicked smile. “Might as well start early.”

 

 

 


End file.
